That's Life
by bloom-and-grow-forever
Summary: Sharon reflects on the conditions of her promotion to Major Crimes, her responsibilities as the division's new commanding officer, and the obstacles that come with it all.
1. Manic Monday

Hi, everyone! This is just a little blurb I regurgitated. Again, thank you for your continued support. You're all phenomenal!

No beta, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

The night before Sharon Raydor took over Major Crimes, she hardly slept. Usually, a couple glasses of wine unleashed a fairly pliable and drowsy Sharon. That night, however, she kicked at her uncomfortably warm sheets, and fought off a pounding headache and dizzying nausea. The thought of swooping in so soon after Brenda's fall from grace, in particular, was nauseating enough without the alcohol in her system. The promotion felt… dirty. Pope couldn't convince Brenda to toe the line, so he let Brenda fall on her sword and ushered Sharon in to "restructure" Major Crimes. Sharon knew that Brenda didn't make her decision to step down for Pope's benefit—Brenda finally recognized the necessity of learning how to appreciate the people in her life—but Pope undoubtedly thought it was all for him. What an insufferable, selfish man, benefitting from the downfall of a powerful woman.

As infuriating as her resignation turned out to be, Brenda left quite a few messes for Sharon in the Major Crimes Division. Nobody wanted Brenda to be… _ended_ this way (except, perhaps, Chief Pope). After watching their fearless leader defeated by men like Phillip Stroh and Peter Goldman, who Sharon could only hope would be brought to justice, Brenda's team—no, _her_ team—was grieving. Not only would they resent someone replacing Brenda after a week of Provenza's leadership, but they hated Sharon's guts _and_ her rules.

Even without the horrible timing and circumstances, the Major Crimes Division, despite Sharon's mutually irksome monitoring over the past several months, still resented their duty to adhere to regulations. In theory, they knew the consequences of defiance (though Brenda remained the only person in that squad who actually suffered from her defiance), but they didn't understand why it mattered. Now, with their fresh wounds and hot tempers, the squad preferred to focus on arresting the dirtbags and nailing them to the wall. And, once again, it fell to Sharon to coax them off the edge of mayhem, to teach them how to properly follow the laws they swore to uphold.

Sharon huffed and punched the empty pillow next to her. She should be celebrating this promotion, not drowning her convictions and anxiety in Chardonnay, alone. Of course, if Gavin knew, he'd have taken her out for vodka and strippers, which didn't sound like her idea of a celebration either. At the very least, anticipation should be her most prominent emotion, not the most overpowered. As much as she appreciated what her time in FID did for her career, leading the LAPD's most elite group of detectives was a hell of a promotion for the _Wicked Witch_ of FID. (Flynn and Provenza either thought they were sneaky, or they just didn't care if she knew.)

Rolling onto her back, Sharon rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. The most frustrating part of this whole mess was that she knew she had to be patient with them. No matter how impossible, insolent, and infuriating every one of them was bound to be, she knew they would be waiting for her to slip up, to stomp into her office and slam the door. She knew those men were hurting, but she would not allow her sympathy for their situation to serve as an invitation to trample her authority, to take advantage of her concern. Balance. That's what they needed. That's what they'd always lacked.

Eventually, after she exhausted all possible the worst case scenarios for her first day, her brain shut down for a couple hours of fitful slumber. Her subconscious tortured her with nightmares about more lawsuits, ding dongs, bobble heads, and toothpicks, so her eyes were already wide open when she slapped at her alarm clock.

Sharon did not go into the office until Chief Taylor called her. As much as she detested being summoned, she preferred that to wandering around the PAB with nowhere to go and nothing to do. She had quietly packed up her office in FID the previous Friday, hauling the boxes home for the weekend (made much easier by Agent Howard and the dolly he was returning), but she could hardly waltz into Major Crimes and claim Brenda's office while the squad either investigated a crime scene or watched the absolute _horror_ of her usurpation unfold from the bullpen.

After a couple of bouts with more unsettling thoughts, Sharon decided to use the extra time to indulge in a morning swim, hoping for an outlet for her restlessness. As usual, the water did not fail her. For exactly forty-seven minutes, Sharon focused on her breathing, her technique, and her speed. She timed herself, concentrated on numbers instead of all the reasons this promotion could be a disaster. As she toweled her hair dry on the way to the elevators, she made a mental note to swim the next time Major Crimes drove her to insomnia.

By 9:30 a.m., Sharon, impeccably dressed in her favorite Armani pantsuit and blue silk blouse, passed the time by pacing the kitchen with her third cup of coffee. Flicking through her closet like a thirteen-year-old for twenty minutes did not bolster her confidence. Her job, of course, did not require impressing Brenda's boys with her superior wardrobe, but her indecisiveness had less to do with how she looked and more to do with the vibe she emitted. Red was too aggressive, white too saintly, purple too casual, beige too neutral. Blue was authoritative, democratic. Sharon was hard-pressed to find a word that opposed Brenda's leadership style so completely as "democratic."

For the last week, Sharon had been pondering the difference between being qualified for the job and knowing the job. Unlike Brenda, Sharon did not have CIA-training or homicide investigation experience. Therefore, also unlike Brenda, Sharon acknowledged that she needed each member of her division. Brenda always struggled to delegate, but Sharon definitely saw the appeal in Brenda's aversion. How much easier would it be to control an investigation, to ensure that everything ran smoothly with minimal mistakes, if you did everything yourself? Easier, yes. Easier to lose perspective, as she'd helplessly watched Brenda do.

Sharon jumped when her cell phone rang and vibrated in her left hand. Her initial knee-jerk reaction sloshed searing coffee out of her mug, scalding her hand and prompting another knee-jerk reaction that ended with half the remaining coffee dribbling off her blouse and blazing down her chest. Only after she'd spewed a string of profanities did she answer her phone.

"Good morning, Chief." Sharon hoped Taylor couldn't hear her vocal strain from steadying her voice. She dropped the offending mug in the sink, ignoring the sound of cracking ceramic. Wrenching a few paper towels free, though knowing nothing could save the blouse, Sharon dabbed desperately at the streams of coffee that burned her breasts and stomach. _So much for the democratic look_.

"I'm sorry, Chief could you repeat that?" Sharon asked, yanking her blazer off as she rushed down the hallway to her bedroom. She could barely hear him over the din of the crime scene that, unless her ears deceived her, had already been taken over by Lieutenant Provenza.

"I said Major Crimes is rolling out to an undercover operation gone bad," Taylor said, his voice carrying more gravity his title afforded him. "Two robbers dead, two escaped, and one in custody."

Sharon tossed the untarnished blazer on her bed, pressed a few buttons to put her phone on speaker, and began to peel the stained silk from her body. "I wasn't aware that Major Crimes was conducting an undercover operation," she said, this time fighting to keep her resentment at bay instead of her waning pain.

"They aren't, Captain," Taylor snapped, without bothering to hide his contempt. "This was somebody else's screw up _before_ the stakes were so high. Miller's case—been going on for months."

Rolling her eyes, Sharon snatched her phone and rushed into the bathroom to wipe off her chest more thoroughly. The one time she put extra sugar in her coffee…

"Captain, you there?"

Catching sight of her cleavage in the mirror, Sharon cringed at the thought of being half naked on the phone with Russell Taylor. "Yes, Chief. Send me the address, and I will meet you at the crime scene," she said. Once Taylor hung up, Sharon snatched a washcloth from her towel rack and dampened it, wincing at the irritated skin on her chest.

 _Guess I'm going with the damn beige._

Much to her dismay, the address Chief Taylor sent Sharon belonged to a grocery store at least thirty minutes from the condo. Provenza would be foaming at the mouth when he realized that not only was she taking over his division, but she couldn't bother to be on time. Sharon changed her bra, punched her arms through the holes in her dress, tightened her belt, and scooped up her blazer before powerwalking down the hall, pausing at the hall table to stuff her gun and badge in her purse and dig her keys out of the bowl. The doorknob's static shock to her fingertips prompted her to slump against the door with a frustrated groan. To take a breath. Remember how she felt to see the encouraging texts from her kids that morning. Remind herself that she earned this promotion, despite the complications and controversy. Take another breath. Stand by her conviction that her detectives did not have to like her, only respect her. Hear her father's voice in her head, telling her that confidence would always be her friend when she had none. One last breath. Go.


	2. Notes

Happy birthday, Emma! Here are the answers to the rest of your Shack prompts: When did Sharon separate from Jack? What made her take that step? When did she stop the cycle of enabling him? Set after 2x07.

Just know that the epic retribution at the very end was written by lolcat202, who was good enough to beta this for me. Her suggestions made this 1,000 times better.

All my love 3

* * *

Sharon closed her eyes as she sunk lower into her steaming bubble bath. At 2:00 a.m., when Jack-induced insomnia struck, she figured she'd fare better for indulging in a bath than tossing and turning, especially after such a taxing day. Desperate for relief even before she'd left the office, she'd prayed for emotional exhaustion to take a physical manifestation.

Thanks to that damn envelope, her mind wouldn't shut down. She was finally done with Jack.

Sharon could hear her mother. _You said that the first time_. But she hadn't, really. Suddenly raising a three-year-old and a five-year-old alone, reconciling the extra hours at work with the babysitter fees, and investigating male cops who would still be promoted before her was not easy. For years, she ached for the stability she and Jack dreamed of but never truly had, for the support and love that he vowed to provide. Every time she welcomed him back into their family or back into her condo—"Only for a couple nights, Sharon"—her resolve, packed tight into the dream she'd had since Jack finally found the courage to ask her to the movies, corroded with every subsequent disappointment. Every woman she caught him with, every one of Emily's missed recitals, every father/son camping trip Ricky couldn't attend, chipped away at her crumbling expectations. For so long, Sharon thought Jack's rehabilitation would have made it all worth it. If she could just be pretty enough, encouraging enough, strong enough, soft enough, good enough, e _nough_. During his periods of sobriety, Jack tried to make it up to the kids, but she gave up on a happy ending for the two of them after he gave up a year of sobriety and fidelity for Ricky's AP U.S. History teacher.

Sharon plucked the wine glass resting on the tub's rim and took a long sip. Her children were the only parts of her dream that still mattered to her. Years of callouses, meant only for the adults Sharon would never truly consider them, toughened Ricky and Emily to the world they thrived in now. Slowly, choking sobs at every sudden departure morphed into hidden tears on birthday cards, until finally, visiting their father became a chore instead of a privilege. Time after time, they made her proud, made her feel like she had been more than enough for them. Sighing, Sharon pinched the bridge of her nose. Emily and Ricky didn't _need_ a father, especially now, but God, Sharon wished she'd been able to give them one.

" _Emily, will you open the door for Mama?" Sharon cooed over Ricky's wails. According to the daycare, he had a fever of 101.7, but at least Sharon could rest easy knowing that this lingering cold had not affected his lungs. Jack was supposed to take him to the doctor two days ago, but he couldn't get out of court, and she'd been stuck sending_ _George A_ _ndrews to yet another sensitivity training._

 _So, here she was, loitering outside her own house with a screaming toddler and a week's worth of FID reports in her arms, while a five-year-old teetering on her ballerina tip-toes tried to reach the knob. When Emily squealed, "I got it," Sharon barely had time to congratulate her before she knew something was terribly wrong._

 _Her great-grandmother's antique vase was missing from the foyer, as was the matching silver-framed mirror that hung above the table the vase rested on. Instinctively, Sharon dropped her files and scooped Emily up, backing out of any intruder's line of sight. "Emily," she whispered, despite Ricky's continued cries. "Take your brother and go next door to Mrs. Hampton's, and wait there until I come to get you."_

" _But Mama, I'm tired—"_

 _Sharon thrust a screaming Ricky into her daughter's arms. "Emily, please do as I say," she begged. "I need your help."_

 _Emily huffed, resigned to be, once again, Mama's Big Helper. She trudged across the lawn to Mrs. Hampton's front porch, where, to Sharon's immense relief, the matronly old woman sat in her wicker chair._

 _As soon as Mrs. Hampton scooped Ricky out of Emily's determined but faltering grip, Sharon sneaked into her house, weapon drawn. Gliding through the foyer, she strained to hear any shuffling or moving, scanned every corner for a shadow, struggled to steady her hands._

 _The more rooms in the house Sharon cleared, the more obvious it became that nothing was out of place, but so much was missing. The TV, their wedding china, the few pieces of valuable jewelry she hadn't sold, leftovers from last night, Jack's clothes. Like dying leaves drifting downstream, gone before she realized all she'd lost. By the time Sharon ripped open the letter waiting on her pillow, she knew._

 _Sharon_ , it read, _I can't stop. I know I promised. I'm in some trouble. I'm sorry._

The disturbances didn't end with Jack's departure. No sooner had Sharon read Jack's note did she realize that Jack had taken everything of value out of the house. When her debit card was declined at the grocery store later that evening, she made an appointment with a pale, sweating bank teller, who informed her that her husband had cleaned out their accounts. One visit to the bank later, another, steelier, grave teller gave Sharon a crash course on the consequences of the second mortgage that both somehow bore her signature and ruined her credit. Next thing she knew, her father was trying to pay her bills and hire a lawyer to file for legal separation, and her mother was sleeping with her at night, filling what was left of her daughter's heart with empty promises. _Oh, sweet baby. Everything's going to be okay._

Shaking the memory from her head, Sharon rose from the tub and grabbed a towel. If not for the painful recollection, the bath and the wine might have done their job, but bad memories, cooling water, and lukewarm wine wouldn't make her any sleepier, so she would have to try her luck in bed.

Of all the fights Sharon and Jack had, they had never fought professionally. Another small blessing in her IA career. As Sharon discarded her towel and crawled back into bed, she fought off the irritating thought that had lurked at the back of her mind all day—that her professional ire had been fueled by deep personal resentment. So what if it was? How many times had he belittled and humiliated her in public and at home? Why should she care if, just this once, she didn't take the high road? Why should she care if Jack had gone from boyish happiness to thundering rage in a matter of hours? He left her. Again. Why should she care?

 _Because you have a moral compass, and Jack is soulless scum_ , her mom had sighed countless times over the years.

Sharon muffled a frustrated groan with the empty pillow beside her. Did having a moral compass condemn her to a life robbed of feeling the slightest satisfaction when a bastard got what he deserved? Why couldn't she be like Flynn, call everyone dirtbags and idiots and freaks, and not look any further? Sure, Jack was trying, which was new, but he only wanted a career and money for _himself_. He wasn't trying for her or the kids. Trying shouldn't phase her. Trying shouldn't incite false hope, as it had so many times.

 _You are the one who takes this relationship for granted_. God, in the moment, it felt so good to finally say those words. Yet, here she was, tossing and turning in the bed he'd left empty for decades, worried she'd pushed too far. Fuck her moral compass. What good had it done her?

" _She started it! How many times do I have to tell you?"_ _Sharon had never heard Emily speak to Father Stan that way before, but as the flustered lieutenant stumbled into one of the rooms St. Joseph's used for instruction, her ten-year-old daughter stood with her hands in tiny white fists, stretching to reach Father Stan's height, face red from yelling._

"EmilyAmelia _!" Sharon barked, slamming the door behind her. Even Ricky, blameless for once, flinched from behind his wall of Legos._

" _Sharon, sorry to call you down here," Father Stan said quickly. Maybe he was a little afraid too. "Emily and Nikki got in an…altercation."_

 _For the first time, Sharon noticed Emily's friend Nikki Andrews, sulking in a corner desk next to Christine, one of the daycare workers, on the other side of the room.._

 _Emily whirled around, fierce in the face of her mother's ire when in full supply of her own. "She said—"_

 _Sharon dropped her purse on the desk with such a force that the rickety piece of furniture creaked. "It sounds like you have said plenty today," she said. Turns out rearing her daughter to speak her mind but respect her elders produced this conundrum of fury. "Sit down." When Emily threw herself into the nearest desk and blubbered angrily, Sharon turned to Christine, who had been watching Emily and Ricky after school since Sharon joined St. Joseph's congregation three years before. "What happened?"_

 _Christine stepped forward, leaving a sulking Nikki Andrews behind her. "I'm sorry to call you away from work, Mrs. Raydor—"_

 _Sharon waved her off, not bothering to hide her impatience. "It's fine. I'm here. What happened?"_

 _Eyeing Emily hesitantly, Christine moved closer to Sharon. Once she was within earshot of just Sharon and the priest, she started to explain in hushed tones. "Nikki told Emily that Jack only comes home when he wants to…and I'm just quoting, get in bed with you."_

 _Sharon squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her abdomen. If Christine had kneed her in the gut, it wouldn't hurt like this. A ten-year-old doesn't say those things; parents do. Parents that invited Sharon and the kids over for at least two game nights a month since Emily and Nikki became friends. Before Jack left again last week, he had joined them. "And I suppose Emily did not respond well," Sharon sighed._

 _Christine twirled a strand of blonde hair around her finger and averted her eyes. "Emily took off one of her shoes and smacked Nikki across the face with it."_

 _As horrified as Sharon was by her daughter's violent behavior, that small part of her that she spent most of her life suppressing was gratified that her daughter fought back. "Is she seriously hurt? Nikki?"_

 _Christine shook her head. "Emily only got a couple of licks in."_

Damn _, the small voice said._

 _Sharon reached down to squeeze the young woman's hand. "Thank you for handling this and for calling me. I'm sorry I snapped at you." Christine timidly brushed off Sharon's apology, so Sharon simply thanked her again and turned to her daughter, who didn't bother to hide the tears soaking her red cheeks. When that sight proved too much to bear, Sharon glanced at Father Stan. "Can I take them now, please?"_

 _Father Stan's cocked eyebrow and pursed lips were almost enough for Sharon to roll her eyes. Baring her soul to the same person for years had its drawbacks. "Emily and I will have a talk about this tomorrow," he assured her. "There's a lot going on. Maybe we'll talk about that too."_

 _Sharon nodded once, unable to hold Father Stan's knowing gaze for long, and walked to Ricky. "Honey, please clean up the Legos. You and Em are coming to work with me."_

" _But Mama, I'm almost done with my wall—"_

" _Richard, pick up the blocks." When Ricky huffed at her and began throwing the blocks into the bin, Sharon bit back a weary sigh and held out her hand to Emily. "Come on. Get up. We'll talk on the way to Parker Center."_

 _Emily rejected her mother's touch and stormed into the hallway. Ricky pushed past Sharon to catch up with his sister, and Emily allowed him to hold her hand to slow her down. She watched the two of them make their way down the hall, neither looking back to see if she was following. Thank God they had each other._

 _She couldn't fail them, or they wouldn't have much else._

She gave them as much as she could—her love, support, advice, and stability. Even now, it wasn't okay, like her mother promised, but this time, Jack's departure didn't shock or paralyze Sharon. No, this time, instead of her coworkers perceiving her as incompetent for not keeping her home in order, Jack was humiliated for bringing their relationship into her murder room. She held all the cards, and for the first time in twenty years, she wanted to use them, and she could. God damn it, she would. She swung her legs over the side of her bed and yanked her robe off the back of the door. Punching her arms through the sleeves, she tried to steady her breathing. It would do no good to burst into Rusty's room huffing and puffing. Not one more child would be disturbed by the ripples of Jack Raydor's constant break onto the surface of reality.

Easing Rusty's door open, Sharon held her breath, watching the lump in the bed rise and fall with his deep breaths. Sharon snuck to Rusty's open closet on the balls of her feet and sifted through her son's questionable but hand-picked plaid shirts and St. Joseph's uniforms until she felt Jack's suit. The bastard hadn't taken everything this time. He actually thought she would let him come back.

Suit balled up in her arms, Sharon slipped out of Rusty's room, and without a second thought or a pair of shoes, left her condo. The first time he bothered to leave clothes behind, she'd felt relieved. _He'll come back_ , she told her father, hiding from her daughter's 12th birthday party and choking back a guttural cry. _He's never left any of his things before. He'll come back, Daddy._ A thought that once made every chance worth giving suddenly pointed her moral compass to a new true north.

She didn't _want_ him to come back.

She had a family, and he was no longer a part of it.

These seemed fairly simple truths, she thought as she stuffed Jack's suit into a trash bag. They weren't even new ones. But for the first time, when confronted with what to do about Jack, she was thinking about herself. Not the kids, not her parents, not the church. Herself. Emily and Ricky could dictate their own relationship with their father, her parents had left this world confident in her ability to handle Jack, and any issue the church had could wait until she was actually ready to confront divorce. Until then, she would invest her time into permanently distancing herself from Jack Raydor. As she yanked open the fridge and dumped Jack's almond milk and butter substitutes on top of his crumpled suit, the first baby step felt guiltless.

As she stared at the mess of fabric and gluten-free, non-dairy goods mingling at the bottom of the bag, she laughed. She grabbed the scratch pad she kept by the refrigerator for grocery lists and scribbled out a hasty note.

"I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry."

Tearing the sheet off the pad, she threw it onto the sodden mess, tied the bag, and took it to the chute down the hall.

"Goodbye, Jack," she whispered, as she closed the chute.


	3. That Would Be Enough

This is set between seasons one and two, so this work is officially out of order. My apologies. *nervous chuckle* (Also sorry to post a funeral fic on Valentine's Day.) No beta, so all mistakes are mine.

This chapter is for guest reviewer Amy. I don't think this is exactly what you had in mind, but I hope it's a step in the right direction. :)

* * *

No one expected Todd O'Dwyer's funeral to be a small affair. The esteemed judge and former Air Force pilot had made many friends over the course of his life, and he was survived, as the priest needlessly reminded the crowd, by five sisters, twelve nieces and nephews, his wife, and his daughter. Even without a stranger in sight, the combined breaths and hot tears could negate the chill.

The crowd dwindled as the procession traveled from the church where Todd was baptized to the cemetery, where he would rest next to his parents. By the time the naval officers folded her father's flag, Sharon could more easily spot her aunts, cousins, and family friends. Sharon squeezed her mother's hand until the young man presented her with the flag. When Arlene O'Dwyer only blinked at the offering, Sharon prayed that the dementia would not choose this moment to rear its merciless head.

Whether she realized what was happening or not, Arlene clasped her husband's tribute. She did not reach for her daughter's hand again.

The commute to the house for the reception was nearly silent, despite the packed limousine. Emily rested her head on her mother's shoulder, sniffling occasionally, Todd's sisters alternated between holding hands and wiping their eyes, Ricky, after being denied his grandmother's hand, sat with his puffy eyes trained on the floor, and Arlene stared straight ahead, her usually vibrant blue eyes blank. When Arlene had woken up that way, Sharon immediately knew that this would be one of the "bad days" her mother's neurologist had warned her about. In the year since Arlene's diagnosis, her father had become the most qualified to discern the good days from the bad. Hundreds of miles away, Sharon could only fear the worst every time she noticed a drastic difference in her mother's vernacular or idiosyncrasies. The first time Arlene called Sharon demanding to speak to one of her father's former secretaries, Sharon wept for an hour. Her father had always been made of sterner stuff.

Sharon squeezed a couple of tears out of her eyes, her father's voice in her head as it had a million times before, when he was still here. _You're stronger than you think_.

* * *

Sharon used that strength to socialize at her father's wake. Her parents' living room housed another montage of familiar faces, and Sharon wondered if her mother recognized any of them today. Amidst brief conversations with mourners, Sharon made her mother a plate of finger food, asked her aunts if they needed anything nonalcoholic, and hugged her children. Even as she comforted her father's mentee, Sharon expected him to join them in the kitchen, pour himself a tumbler of scotch, and quiz her on airplane mechanics. Faced with such a bleak reality, Sharon buried her own pain by setting to the impossible task of healing others, one gesture at a time.

"Mom?" Sharon knelt down next to her mother, seated in her favorite recliner, spine straight as a rod. "Since people are starting to leave, how do you feel about lying down for a few minutes?"

Todd's youngest sister, Jenna, sat on the recliner's arm. "I may have to join you, Arlie. It's been a long day for all of us."

Sharon knew they sounded condescending, but they didn't know how to communicate with this stony woman, who didn't exist even the night before. Last night, her mother had been waiting for her in the front hall with open arms and words of comfort. With her face buried in her mother's neck, Sharon realized that her mother's gray bob smelled of the same Pantene shampoo she'd been using for years. The same robe she donned when she cooked Sharon breakfast every morning sufficiently hid the weight loss. Despite the chilly weather of early spring, her toenails were painted blue, because she shuddered at the sight of naked toes. Even through her crippling grief, Arlene had been present, compassionate, lucid. Then the sun dawned this stranger.

"Who killed my husband?" Gone was Arlene's sweet, melodic voice, replaced by the rasp of an angry, paranoid woman.

Sharon and Jenna locked eyes. _Why today?_

"Arlie, Todd had a stroke," Jenna said, resting her hand on her sister-in-law's shoulder.

Ignoring Jenna, Arlene glared down at Sharon. "Was it you? Your father was so worried about you taking a job with the LAPD, of all places. He stayed up all last night pacing."

Sharon dug her fingernails into her biceps, redirecting her anguish. _It's okay. She doesn't realize what she's saying_. _She's just confused_.

"He _begged_ you to just let us help you, so you could go back to school," Arlene continued. "Don't you remember? Begged. Your own _father_!"

 _Sharon, it's just a loan_ , he'd said. _I know we raised you to be independent, but there's no need to reject help when it's offered._

"Arlene, that's enough. That was years ago." The gentleness had disappeared from Jenna's voice, and Sharon would rather endure her mother's delusional censure than her aunt's conscious brashness.

"Jenna, it's okay." Another person had materialized, speaking for Sharon. Sharon always meant what she said. This person didn't believe a word. "Mom, I'm sorry. I told Dad I was sorry. Let's talk about this tomorrow." When she reached for her sweet, gentle mother's hand, Arlene's separate being retaliated, slapping Sharon's hand away.

"You won't be here tomorrow." Arlene's eyes blazed blue as the hottest flame. "This isn't your home anymore. You've made a home in Los Angeles, with your broken marriage and a job where everyone despises you." Arlene was trapped between the past and the present now, events and emotions disjointed from their rightful order.

 _She doesn't mean it_. _This isn't even her._

"Granna, you can't talk to her like that." Ricky, indignant and protective as ever, stood in the doorway of the living room in which he and his sister had spent countless holidays in the arms of a woman he no longer recognized.

Sharon shook her head. "Ricky, please—"

"She's not so far gone that she doesn't know right from wrong," Ricky said, sounding more like his father than he ever had, like the defiant and defensive man Jack had been when they first met.

By now, Arlene was thoroughly flustered, her hands clutching her pink cheeks and her eyes closed. Sharon couldn't bear it. "Mom, please. Let's go lay down for a while. Things will be better when you wake up, I promise." She said it with none of the certainty that her mother never seemed to run short on.

Emily, who had barely spoken the whole day, swallowed the seemingly perpetual lump in her throat and strode into the space between her brother and mother. "Granna?" Emily pried her grandmother's worn, baby soft hands from her cheeks and guided them to her own.

When Arlene finally opened her eyes, the only remnants of the fury were tears. "Emily." At last, the certainty and recognition that had been missing since dawn spread across her face.

Emily didn't have a second being to emerge, to erase her puffy eyes and damp cheeks. "I don't want to be by myself, but I'm so tired. Would you lie down with me for a while?"

Arlene nodded, but when she noticed Sharon kneeling so close to her, she winced. "Sharon, I—"

Shaking her head, Sharon shushed her mother softly. "It's okay, Mom. Go help Emily." How she wished she'd thought of giving her mother an occupation. Her whole life, Sharon had watched her mother bustle and fuss and mend, and now she understood. It helped to do something, anything.

"Sharon?" Her Aunt Sheila's pack-a-day husk never failed to make Sharon sit up straight. "The kids are going to make themselves useful and help us clean up. Why don't you rest? I bet Jo's got a Valium with your name on it."

When Todd's oldest sister plucked a prescription bottle from her handbag and shook it like a bag of dog treats, Sharon guffawed. "Thank you both, but I think I'll settle for a cigarette." As Sheila slipped a cancer stick and a lighter in Sharon's hand, Sharon resisted the bitter thought that slithered to the forefront of her mind. _Daddy never smoked a day in his life. Sheila's here. He's gone._

* * *

Sharon's hands shook as she struggled to light her cigarette, and after a third failed attempt, she uttered the worst curse word combination she could conjure and tossed the cigarette and useless lighter onto the wooden patio table.

"Hope you're ready to say a rosary or twelve," Jenna teased, sliding the patio door closed. "If you share, I'll light it for you."

Swiping at a tear, Sharon nudged the impertinent items closer to the opposite side of the table. Instead of sitting there, however, Jenna dragged a chair next to Sharon and fell into it, flicking the lighter to life. After taking the first drag, she handed the cigarette off to Sharon and draped an arm around her shoulders.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that."

Determined not to choke on a sob or the smoke, Sharon held her breath. "I can't imagine how many times Dad had to go through that. And poor Mom." She sniffled and brought the cigarette to her lips as Jenna pulled her closer.

"It's not as bad as you think," Jenna said, resting the side of her head on top of Sharon's. "I've been coming over more and more since they found out, and most days are good, Sharon. Today was just…so hard." The quiver in her voice prompted Sharon to give Jenna a minute for recovery before she responded with another hard truth. Todd had already turned fifteen by the time Jenna was born, so she didn't truly get to know him until she grew up. For a long time, Jenna was closer to Sharon than to Todd. After a lifetime of fulfilling ephemeral obligations, Jenna moved into a house fifteen minutes from Todd and Arlene's, and for the next twenty years, Todd and Jenna tried to make up for the time they lost. They caught up just in time for his death to gut her.

"It's going to get worse now, isn't it?" Sharon asked.

Jenna sighed and squeezed Sharon's shoulder. "A drastic change in her environment is going to take its toll, yes."

"She can't be by herself," Sharon said, watching the smoke dissolve in the spring air. "But I can't bear the thought of disrupting her life even more by putting her in a home, Jen."

"I've already thought of that." Whatever her faults, Jenna had always loved to play problem-solver. "I wasn't going to bother you with it today, but if you're just gonna fret over it—" She sighed, as if she was still trying to convince herself to speak. "The girls and I were talking, and since Jo is already living with me, we figured we'd move in with your mother."

Sharon pulled away to look her aunt in the eye. "Jenna, I can't ask that of you."

Jenna cocked a manicured eyebrow. "You're not." When Sharon opened her mouth to argue, Jenna held up a hand. "I don't want to argue about this. You know your mother has always been an O'Dwyer sister. We love her like we love each other, some days more than that. You've got that major murder squad—"

"Major Crimes Division—"

"—and that boy that you're taking care of. Give me a more beneficial course of action, and I'll consider it." With a huff, she snatched what remained of the cigarette from Sharon, who couldn't help but smile at her aunt's reaction. _This is what's happening, and you'll like it_ had always been Jenna's philosophy.

"I don't suppose you'd accept any kind of compensation?"

Jenna snorted. "I didn't say that." Sharon giggled, and Jenna kissed the top of her head. "I just want to make this as easy for you as possible. You know how hard it was for everyone when your grandfather died."

Sharon hummed. Her grandfather, rest his soul, resembled Jack in that his addictions ruled his life, including his finances. His grieving wife and children couldn't grasp the magnitude of his problem until the men he owed pounded on the door.

"Thank you," Sharon whispered, and she felt the tears pooling again. "I don't know how you can have so much foresight. When I got the call…it's like nothing made sense anymore. I didn't know what to do. Rusty had to help me buy a plane ticket, for God's sake."

"You were in shock."

"Maybe. Maybe Mom was in shock too, when she woke up this morning. She got so confused." Sharon paused to take a few shuddering breaths, leaning forward onto the table. The hush of the neighborhood had seemed reverent at first, but it seemed more eerie now. "Or maybe he was the light in our lives, and now everything's dark, and it's going to be like this forever." Suddenly furious and confined, she jumped to her feet, pacing the patio with her hands on her hips. "I should have come home more, checked on him more. Why didn't I do that?" Here was yet another person putting words in her mouth and uttering them, but this person wasn't a stranger. She recognized this one, this irrational, broken, aching being. "I should have listened to him when he told me to go back to school. Then maybe I could have come back home to take care of them. Why didn't I do that?" Yes, she remembered this; it first arrived when Jack left the first time. Blame, blame, blame. _Why didn't you prevent this? Why didn't you see this coming? Why weren't you enough?_

Sharon wasn't sure when Jenna started holding her, rocking her back and forth like she had when Sharon was small, but there, in the cocoon of warmth and peppermint, she could hear her father. She could almost see him.

It must have been hard for him, explaining to his seven-year-old daughter that a family friend had been killed in a car accident, that before it happened, the other driver had been drinking what Daddy drinks sometimes. Knowing that Uncle Charlie was in heaven hadn't been enough.

 _He was too young to go to Heaven, Daddy_.

He'd bowed his head, studying the pink tennis shoes that Charlie had only just given her. _You're right, Sharon. He was too young. But everyone is too young to go to Heaven. There will always be people who love someone, who wish that person could have more time. Some things, like death and sickness and pain, happen, and there's no way to stop them. There's no way to be ready to say goodbye. The only thing you can do is give everyone as much love as you can possibly give. They remember that love, and they try their best to give it back when you need it most._

When Sharon felt another set of hands on her back, she squeezed her eyes tighter, clinging to the memory, to the place where her father lived, where it was possible that those hands could be his. Finally succumbing to reality, she opened her eyes to find her mother there, _truly_ there, eyes brimming with all she wanted to say.

There was that love.


End file.
